


cold brew

by alykapedia



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Background Relationships, M/M, No Beta We Die Like Glenn (but Glenn is alive here), mention of dimileth and dorogrid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:28:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24107512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alykapedia/pseuds/alykapedia
Summary: “This is blatant favoritism.” Ingrid grumbles, Dimitri nodding sluggishly from where he’s still face down on the table, and Sylvain pauses in his fussing to give them a dead-eyed stare.“Yes, Felix, my boyfriend, the love of my life, is my favorite,” he says, slowly, enunciating each word carefully like he’s talking to a bunch of preschoolers.“Favoritism,” Ingrid repeats in a hiss anyway, crossing her arms over her chest with a frown.(In which Sylvain is The Mom Friend, his friends are filthy animals (and not in the fun way), and there is a Proposal.)
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 51
Kudos: 402





	cold brew

**Author's Note:**

> i remember seeing a tweet a while back about how sylvain is the faerghus four's mom friend and this kinda just...grew a life of its own?? this is really just self-indulgent modern au shenanigans where i fit a bunch of headcanons
> 
> here are some [messy](https://twitter.com/alykapedia/status/1196053610632626182) [doodles](https://twitter.com/alykapedia/status/1194932017323859970) i've done for this au
> 
> mistakes are mine im sorry

> **Fe**
> 
> [image: a plate filled with an assortment of cat-shaped cookies]  
>  we’re slowly but surely turning into a cat cafe  
>  and i can’t even complain bc i know you’ll like it
> 
> [image: a blue-eyed kitten covered in spaghetti]  
>  this one looks like dima
> 
> [image: a yellow cat pushing an orange one off a ledge]  
>  haha i found me and ingrid
> 
> [image: a small, black kitten inside a mug glaring up at the camera]  
>  aw look babe it’s you

.

It’s only when Felix doesn’t reply to the third cat photo in a row that Sylvain starts to worry. Because while Felix can and will ignore his texts, be they sappy declarations of love or his carefully curated and extremely tasteful dick pics, he always, always texts back a blue heart whenever Sylvain sends him cat photos. So the fact that there’s no tiny blue heart waiting for Sylvain when he checks his phone is a legitimate cause for concern.

Especially since Felix is with Ingrid and Dimitri, working on a group presentation for their medicolegal class, and it’s a little known fact that the three of them combined have little to no life skills whatsoever. They become overly focused and fixated, the very definition of having a one-track-mind. Which on the one hand, is _great_ for crushing law school and defeating their enemies, but on the other, is not very conducive to achieving the first rung on Maslow’s hierarchy of needs (i.e. food, water, and sleep). 

Which is why Sylvain feels completely justified in abandoning that afternoon's paperwork for checking in on them. He’s made a decent dent on the tax forms anyway and set up, like, a ridiculous number of spreadsheets that’ll keep track of all their finances and then some. Plus, he’s pretty sure Dedue will understand. Dedue’s known them back when they were even dumber teens, and was, if Sylvain remembers correctly, caught in the middle of The Great and Terrible Microwave Debacle of ‘81, so he’s perfectly aware of the utter chaos the combined forces of Dimitri, Ingrid, and Felix can wreak when left to their own devices.

(Officially, The Great and Terrible Microwave Debacle of '81 _never happened, shut the fuck up, Sylvain_. Unofficially, The Great and Terrible Microwave Debacle of '81 involved one (1) cup of instant ramen, the aforementioned microwave, a can of string cheese, and Dimitri getting sent to the ER with his right eye swollen shut.) 

And Sylvain’s left them alone for far too long already.

Sending off a quick message to Dedue, Sylvain packs up and sweeps out of the small office and out into the empty cafe. They still have a bit of work to do before they can open the _Lion’s Den_ for the general public, but soon enough, Sylvain, Dedue, and Ashe will be the proud owners of a small (and hopefully successful) business. It’s a far cry from what Sylvain’s father wanted for him and his fancy business and economics double major, and Sylvain couldn’t be any happier. 

(Okay, he actually could be, but that’s still a work in progress and depends entirely on Felix saying _yes_ to a question Sylvain isn’t brave enough to ask just yet.)

“Hey, Ashe?” Sylvain calls out, peeking into the kitchen to see Ashe looking up at him with a raised eyebrow over the cat-shaped cookies he’s been decorating for the better part of the day. “Do you mind holding down the fort today?” He asks, before hastily adding, "I just wanna check on Felix,” when a frown appears on Ashe’s face. 

If anything, Ashe’s frown only deepens at that, taking on a worried slant. “Did something happen?”

“Ah, no. Probably not?” Sylvain really, really hopes not. He’s not mentally and emotionally prepared for a second _Microwave Debacle_. No one is. “It’s just—” he pauses, trying to find the words to explain the situation without making himself sound like the clingy boyfriend that he (admittedly) is, and comes up with, “Fe’s with Ingrid and Dimitri working on a report, and he hasn’t responded to any of my texts.” From the way Ashe snorts, he doesn’t succeed. Which, okay, fair. “So I’m just gonna make sure that it hasn’t turned into _Lord of the Flies_ out there.” 

If Sylvain had been a different person, he’d probably be offended by the look of sheer and utter disbelief on Ashe’s face, but he’s not, and he’s more than used to it besides. “Right. Yeah, okay, sure,” Ashe says in a deadpan before startling as if he's just remembered something. He makes a beeline for one of the ovens and takes out a tray full of— "I made some sandwiches earlier, do you want to bring some with you?" Ashe asks, already in the middle of wrapping the sandwiches, disbelief forgotten in favor of food. "Make sure to ask Ingrid what she thinks about the flavors."

"I will," Sylvain promises, even as he resists the urge to sigh because Ingrid has _opinions_ about food and can spend hours just talking about complementary flavor profiles. "Thanks, Ashe.” 

.

> **Dedue**
> 
> Good luck.
> 
> thanks i feel like ill need it

.

The thing is that Sylvain gets it. 

Really, he does. 

It’s easy for most people to assume that out of the four of them, Ingrid would take on the mantle of being the Mom Friend™ a.k.a The Only Responsible One and The One Who Has Been Blessed with Social Graces by the Goddess Sothis Herself, while the rest of them awkwardly fumble through life, because she _looks_ the part. It’s the hair, Sylvain thinks. It had been pretty convincing when they were younger and Ingrid rocked her long, _horse girl_ braid, but now that she has that short bob thing, it’s even more effective. Combine that with the fact that Ingrid always sounds like she knows what she’s doing all the damn time, then it’s really no wonder why people would connect those dots and make that assumption.

Or if not Ingrid, then Dimitri, who is practically the _poster boy_ of being responsible. Sylvain fondly remembers a D.A.R.E campaign featuring Dimitri and his terrible noodle hair. Or at the very least, Felix, who _could_ be the poster boy of being responsible in certain angles, but only if he doesn’t open his mouth. 

Most people never assume that Sylvain’s the responsible one, and that’s fine, because most people have never witnessed the scene that greets him when he opens the door to Dimitri’s apartment and makes his way inside, and he sincerely hopes that they never will.

“What the hell, guys.” 

The living room looks like a war zone. Scratch that, it _is_ a war zone. It’s like a bomb had detonated in the middle of it with how much of a disaster it is. There are books stacked precariously on the low table, empty takeout containers and bottles of energy drinks scattered on the floor, hell, even dirty clothes strewn across the couch. And right in the middle of it are Dimitri, Ingrid, and Felix, sprawled out in a tableau reminiscent of a Renaissance painting, the three of them in varying levels of consciousness—ranging from Ingrid, who’s hunched over the table and still typing on her laptop like a woman possessed, to Felix, who’s completely out cold, half-lying and half-leaning against the couch. It’s all a horrible, terrible mess and a part of Sylvain wants to shrivel up and die because his friends are _filthy animals_ , and not even in the fun, sexy way.

One look at the carpet they’re all lying on has Sylvain regretting taking his shoes off by the entrance, but before he can make his way back to the door and attempt to save his socks, the blanket-covered mass that is Dimitri moves—like a tectonic plate shifting under the Earth—making everything on the table wobble dangerously.

“Ugh,” Dimitri says intelligently, peering up at Sylvain from where he has half his face smooshed on the table. “Hello, Sylvain.'

“Hey, buddy.” 

Meanwhile, Ingrid, in true Ingrid fashion, scowls up at him as soon as he gets close. “What are you doing here? We told you not to bother us until Sunday,” she spits out, all vitriol and spite, and it would’ve been more effective if Ingrid didn’t look like she’s one blink away from passing out right then and there. “You can survive without sucking face with Felix for one more day, Sylvain.”

Debatable, really, but something tells Sylvain that Ingrid won’t appreciate any of his witty rejoinders, so he settles for pointing out that, “it _is_ Sunday, Ingy.” And goddess, Sylvain can’t believe it’s gotten so bad that they’re losing track of days now.

“What—no!” Ingrid splutters, squinting down at her screen in a flurry of possibly unwashed hair. Sylvain really wouldn’t put it past them. Because if they’ve lost track of the days of the week, who knows what else they’ve lost track of. “ _Fucking Indech_ , it _is_ Sunday.” 

There’s a brand of horror on Ingrid’s face Sylvain’s only ever seen once before when she finally found out, after years and years of nursing her horrible, terrible, no-good crush on Glenn Fraldarius, that Glenn was—in Hilda’s immortal words— _Capital G Gay_ , and before she can work herself up into a fit of pique, he’s pulling her by the elbow and up on her feet.

“Come on, get up. Get off the floor.” Away from all the germs and whatever else is on the carpet. _Ugh_ , Sylvain was not setting foot in Dimitri’s apartment any time in the near future until he has it cleaned up first. “You all look pathetic,” he adds, earning an unintelligible grumble from Dimitri and an elbow to the spleen from Ingrid.

“Fuck off.” 

Sylvain pauses just long enough to shoot Ingrid a beatific smile and the bird, before heading over to where Felix is still out cold and making those little snuffling sounds he does whenever he’s too tired. This time, Sylvain spares no thought for his jeans as he kneels down to scoop Felix up and deposit him onto the couch, tucking a stray lock of hair behind his ear as he does so. And okay, fine, it can be argued that Felix is as much of a mess as Dimitri and Ingrid—Sylvain's pretty sure Felix's beautiful hair hasn't been washed in days—but he's _Sylvain's mess_ and Sylvain is madly in love with him besides, so Sylvain will coo at him and rub his nose against his as obnoxiously as he wants while his heart grows three sizes bigger inside his chest.

“This is blatant favoritism.” Ingrid grumbles, Dimitri nodding sluggishly from where he’s still face down on the table, and Sylvain pauses in his fussing to give them a dead-eyed stare. 

“Yes, Felix, my boyfriend, the love of my life, is my favorite,” he says, slowly, enunciating each word carefully like he’s talking to a bunch of preschoolers. Which, honestly, is probably highly insulting to preschoolers everywhere, because surely, five-year-old kids would have a better understanding of how the world works than Dimitri and Ingrid as they are right now.

“Favoritism,” Ingrid repeats in a hiss anyway, crossing her arms over her chest with a frown.

Case in point.

Dimitri sniffs, levering himself up on his elbows to say, “you only ever call Felix the love of your life when he’s not awake to hear it.” 

Case in point. _Yet again_. 

Sylvain clicks his tongue, trying to convey as much disappointment as he can in his stare as he pulls out his phone, and snaps a quick photo of Dimitri and Ingrid, in all their sleep-deprived and unwashed glory. “Just for that, I’m texting the Professor.” And Dorothea, but he’s keeping that to himself because Ingrid has sharp elbows and won’t react like Dimitri.

“No! They’re on a fishing trip with their father!”

Sylvain scoffs, thumbs tapping out a quick message before hitting send. “They go fishing every Sunday. Pretty sure the fish of Lake Teutates will thank me.” 

“ _Sylvain_!”

.

> **The Professor, Dottie**
> 
> [image: a blurry photo of Ingrid and Dimitri in rumpled clothes, surrounded by books, dirty clothes, and empty take-out boxes]
> 
> pls claim your disasters thanks
> 
> **The Professor**
> 
> I can make it back in a few hours  
>  Can you make sure Dimitri doesn’t just stay like that?
> 
> already on it
> 
> fed him a sandwich and herded him to the bathroom
> 
> sothis is keeping guard
> 
> **Dottie**
> 
> oh no
> 
> i’m still in the middle of rehearsals though :(
> 
> can you drop my ingrid off at the theater?
> 
> yeah sure

.

"Thank you for bringing my Lovely Ingrid to me, Sylvain."

Dorothea calling Ingrid her _Lovely Ingrid_ —and yes, Sylvain definitely hears the capitalization in lovely—will never not be funny, especially when Ingrid is looking murderous as hell beside her, but Sylvain’s learned to keep his amusement at bay because Dorothea’s developed a mean right hook after she started attending those self-defense lessons with Felix. His nose has been broken far too many times already, and Dorothea would not hesitate at all to break it one more time, so he settles for a shrug, graciously accepts the kiss on the cheek she gives him, and throws a cheeky wink at Ingrid’s direction.

"Good luck with rehearsals, Dottie," he says, grinning as Dorothea’s face contorts into a scowl at the nickname before turning to Ingrid, who has him in a headlock before he can so much as wave goodbye. “Ingrid, what the hell?” Sure, he’s been obnoxious with his mother-henning but the only thing that would work on them when they’re in _the zone_ is copious administration of tough love. He doesn’t deserve this kind of abuse after he’d bullied Dimitri into taking a shower and gave Ingrid radio privileges, and he’s about to tell Ingrid so but she’s pulling him down lower before he can, forcing him to bend at the waist to meet her steely gaze.

"So, when are you proposing?”

_Shit._

There's a denial ready on Sylvain's tongue because _damnit_ , it's supposed to be a _secret_ and he's told a total of four people out of complete and utter necessity and sworn all of them to secrecy, so who— 

"Dimitri."

"Dimitri." Ingrid agrees and Sylvain curses under his breath. "He mentioned how you two went out to look at rings,” she continues, looking far too pleased as she narrates the unraveling of his plans. Months of meticulous planning and sneaking around so that Felix doesn’t suspect a thing, going down the proverbial drain all because Sylvain picked the friend who couldn’t lie to save his life to go ring shopping with him. “Felix doesn’t know,” Ingrid adds when she notices him spiraling. “He was in the middle of a phone call with Annie when Dimitri let it slip.” 

Small mercies, but _still_. "Damnit, Dima."

"He tried,” is Ingrid’s reply, along with a lopsided smile and a shrug that reminds Sylvain of the position they’re in. Particularly, the fact that he’s bent in half because Ingrid never grew taller once she turned fourteen. “He looked really guilty when he remembered he wasn’t supposed to tell anyone, which is why I’m also forgiving you for not telling me. I’m sure you have a very good reason why you’re not telling your oldest friend that you’re proposing to our mutual childhood friend.”

(Sylvain does, actually, but he’s too smart to tell Ingrid that she’s even worse than Dimitri when it comes to lying when it comes to keeping a secret, because if Dorothea has a mean right hook, Ingrid has a downright deadly one.)

"Aren't you gonna tell me it's too soon or something?" He asks, the words bitter on his tongue. None of the people he’d told about his plans—Mercedes, Glenn, Rodrigue, and Dimitri—gave credence to the poisonous thoughts in his head, but if anyone he knows is going to play the devil’s advocate, it was going to be Ingrid.

Except Ingrid is releasing her chokehold on him and stepping back, exasperation coming off of her in waves, wearing a look that says something along the lines of _you’re a fucking idiot_. "Sylvain, you two have been dancing around each other for _years_. I was there when you two made your stupid _childhood death pact_ ," she says, incredulous, and before Sylvain can get offended about his and Felix’s _childhood death pact_ —which is very cute and not at all stupid, _thankyouverymuc_ h—Ingrid is continuing, voice rising, ”I lied to Glenn that I was chaperoning your dates and kept you apprised of all the people Felix dated while you two were being idiots about each other!"

Sylvain’s pretty sure she kept him updated on everyone Felix dated during their breakup—from sweet, darling Annette all the way to _fucking Aegir_ —to make him squirm and see him suffer because Ingrid was evil like that. “Alright, fine, I’m an idiot” he acquiesces, running a hand through his hair and quietly admitting to one of the many things he’s scared about, “But I’m still actually not sure if I should ask? I mean, what if he says no—” 

“He’s not gonna say no.” Ingrid cuts him off with a shake of her head, before her face morphs into an expression that Sylvain knows all too well from an entire childhood spent with the most ridiculously competitive people he’s ever met. “If you want, we can bet on it. What do you say, Gautier?” 

“Not in your life.” Ingrid doesn’t make bets she doesn’t win, and Sylvain’s lost enough gold to her over the years not to know that. It’s as much a ringing endorsement than anything coming from her, so Sylvain just shakes his head and pushes her back to Dorothea, who’s been patiently waiting by the entrance all this time. “Go back to your girlfriend, Galatea.”

.

> **Ingy**
> 
> Okay, in all seriousness, I really do think that  
>  Felix will say yes.
> 
> He’d be an idiot not to.
> 
> thanks ingy

.

“So, just how long are you going to pretend to be asleep?” Sylvain asks as soon as he's managed to fumble with the keys and duck inside their apartment, Felix stiffening up in his arms in response. "Not that I mind carrying you," he adds, brushing a kiss against Felix's cheek, warm from the blush taking over his face as Sylvain continues, "but contrary to what Ingrid believes, I really can’t survive without sucking face with you any longer.”

Sylvain counts one, two, three, four beats of silence before Felix is cracking one eye open, bemusement writ clearly on his face.

"How did you even—"

"Know that you're awake? I know your breathing patterns when you're really asleep." And if Sylvain had said that to anyone else, he'd be slapped with a restraining order faster than he can solve a problem using the Michaelis-Menten equation.

But it's _Felix_ and Felix just rolls his eyes fondly and mumbles, " _creep_ ," into the seam of Sylvain's lips, and pulls him into a kiss.

Only years of experience see Sylvain maneuvering them to the living room and onto the couch as he licks into Felix’s mouth like a man starved. There’s no resistance at all; Felix is soft and pliant, mouth plush and open, and Sylvain proceeds to eat him all up, catching up on almost three days’ worth of kisses in a matter of minutes. They kiss until Sylvain’s lips are sore and Felix is gasping for air and looking as if they’d done more than just kiss.

"Hi,” Sylvain rasps once he’s caught his breath, settling on his belly between Felix’s legs and wrapping his arms around Felix’s waist. “You taste like day-old coffee." Specifically, the cold brew Sylvain prepared for him when he left for his nerd bender with Ingrid and Dimitri, and he makes a mental note to make more—after he figures out why Felix is looking at him with an expression he can’t quite place. “Fe?” 

He’s treated to the sight of Felix flushing delicately, dark lashes fluttering as he keeps his gaze pointedly averted and asks in a quiet voice, "Love of your life, huh?"

Oh.

_Oh._

Sylvain should’ve known Felix heard that. 

"Well, yeah," he admits, because what else is there to say? “You _are_ the love of my life.” And Sylvain wants to spend the rest of his life with him, wants to make good on their childhood death pact—to live together until they die together—wants to be grey and old and wrinkly with Felix by his side, and oh Saints, what is he even waiting for? “Hey, Fe?” 

There must be something in his voice because Felix’s gaze skitter back to him, honey-colored eyes bright and warm. “Sylvain?” 

“I—” He swallows down the _how do you feel about Dagdan takeout_ ready to spill out of his mouth, and instead shores up every bit of courage he has, takes out the small, velvet box that has been living in his jacket for weeks now, and scrambles down to the floor on his knees, and asks the question that has been taking root in his heart ever since he and Felix found each other again. “Will you marry me?” 

Fumbling with the box, Sylvain opens it to reveal a pair of silver studs, with a tiny sapphire embedded in the center.

"I know rings are traditional but we're not really traditional,” a conclusion he’d arrived at after an entire day of looking at rings with Dimitri, and rejecting each and every one because none of them screamed _Felix_. “And I remembered the time we pierced each other’s ears and got into so much trouble, so I thought it would be—" _funny,_ he doesn’t get to say, as he finally looks up and sees the stricken look on Felix’s face, the silence between them turning deafening. "Felix? Say something, please."

"You asshole," Felix breathes out and Sylvain’s heart drops to his stomach, before it swoops back up when Felix’s calloused hands grab at his cheeks. “I'm not saying no!” He adds, practically yelling the words and effectively drowning out the poisonous thoughts worming their way to Sylvain’s head. The way things are currently going, Sylvain’s thoughts don’t even have the chance to turn self-deprecating with how fast Felix is giving him emotional whiplash with every declaration. “Who else would I want to spend my life with, if not you?" _Case in fucking point._ And before Sylvain can even start to process that particular gem of a line—not that it’s a _line_ because Felix is ridiculously sincere—Felix is planting a kiss on his forehead and taking off in a sprint towards the bedroom. "I'm gonna say yes, just wait there!" 

And he doesn’t have to wait long, barely even has time to sit on the floor, because Felix is running back to the living room, clutching what looks to be a velvet box and _oh_ , Sylvain feels faint. “The gemstone is from my mom’s wedding ring,” Felix is saying, settling down on Sylvain’s lap easily as he opens the box to reveal a simple, silver band bearing a familiar stone. "I was going to wait until after graduation, but you beat me to it.”

"You know this isn't a race, right?" Sylvain croaks, looking up from the ring to see Felix roll his eyes, because _of course_ Felix thinks it’s a race. He’s ridiculous like that, and goddess, Sylvain is truly, madly, and deeply in love with him.

"Will you marry me?"

"I asked first,” he points out and is rewarded with a belligerent pout and Felix making a show of standing up, leaving Sylvain no choice but to drag him back down into his lap, laughing all the while as tears prickle at his eyes. "Yes, goddess, yes, I'll marry you, you insufferable brat." 

.

> **Fe**
> 
> 💙💙💙

**Author's Note:**

> glenn and rodrigue had all the cards in this fic and didn't even squeal, hats off to the fraldariuses HHHH you can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/alykapedia/) where i cry about sylvix all day every day 
> 
> (bonus: [felix's exes](https://twitter.com/alykapedia/status/1219588073521987587))
> 
> pls help water my crops by commenting ;-;


End file.
